


nachmittag in wien

by Wedeck



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 15:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wedeck/pseuds/Wedeck
Summary: Ludwig admires Roderich's hands.





	nachmittag in wien

**Author's Note:**

> A small piece as tribute to my favourite Hetalia pairing. Originally posted to my ask blog, ask-geraus.

“Is there something wrong with my hand?”

Ludwig glanced at him. Somehow, he seemed surprised that Roderich had asked. “Ah… no,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“…Nothing in particular. It’s stupid.”

Roderich studied him as he deflected his gaze. He was familiar with Ludwig’s mannerisms by now, could read the quirk of his mouth and the twin peaks of his furrowed brow that spoke of embarrassment and maybe a little shame. He was hiding something, that was for certain, and Roderich — unable to resist the lure of a good mystery — found his agenda shifting from getting to the piano to drawing him out.

“Germany,” he began, “I _truly_ hope you don’t believe I’m going to humour your attempts to denigrate yourself. Out with it, please, or I’ll play Einaudi instead of Chopin for the next several hours.”

The corner of Ludwig’s eye twitched, and Roderich had to commend himself for his trap. There was nothing quite like the threat of _Nuvole Bianche_ on repeat to set anyone straight; under those conditions, he probably would have capitulated, himself.

But he had forgotten that Ludwig, too, had his own brand of catching others off-guard. As the German’s fingers squeezed his a little more tightly, the tips of his ears burning rosy pink, he found his own pride melting, replaced by the desire to cover that pout in kisses. It was a feeling that, moments later, solidified when Ludwig finally gave an answer.

“…I was just admiring how soft and slender they are. Every bit of them, from the palm to your fingertips. It’s like they — _you_ were built for piano. And…”

“And?”

Ludwig raised his eyes to meet Roderich’s. “…They’re just nice to hold,” he said, smiling slightly. “Not like mine.”

Roderich stared at him. Response after bewildered response — _you fool, what on Earth do you mean by that, I think your hands are perfectly fine Germany_ — flitted to mind in violent protest. One by one, however, they were discarded. _Words_. How pitifully inadequate they could be despite their primary function of communication, how graceless.

Almost without thinking, his fingers tightened around Ludwig’s own. Undeterred by the other’s look of surprise, he pulled, turned the back of one hand toward him, and pressed his lips to the valley between his middle and index knuckle.

Ludwig flushed a bright red. “Hey…”

Roderich held the position for a few seconds; any longer, and he would have to worry about the possibility of Ludwig fainting, it seemed like all the blood had rushed to his head. “You fool,” he murmured into Ludwig’s hand. “After that preposterous declaration, I ought to play Einaudi for you anyway.”

“You _asked_, you nosy aristocrat.”

“So I did. But to hear something like that, and from you? Nothing could have prepared me.”

Ludwig chuckled, and Roderich could sense him tugging his hands back, but he didn’t let go just yet. When Ludwig sent him a questioning glance, asking with his eyes whether still something was wrong, Roderich squeezed again.

“They’re nice to hold, Ludwig,” he said softly. “They speak of a defender. Yes, a defender who works hard through the day to ensure others sleep well at night. If my hands were built for music, then yours were built for love.”

Ludwig shifted, seemingly with discomfort. “…It’s probably more like war.”

“Is war not fighting to protect something you love?”

There was a pause. “I didn’t expect to hear that from _you_, either.”

“You are very lovable, Ludwig. It’s an unfortunate side effect of how much you love others.”

The German didn’t offer a reply, but he didn’t need to. As Roderich finally let go of his hands and Ludwig was free to pull away, he caught the bashful flick of his eyes toward the salon where the piano was and the way his blushing had returned. He was content to leave it at that — and to grace the house, which had been depressingly silent, with an étude or two — when Ludwig mumbled something in his direction.

“Thanks.”

Roderich patted his hand as he passed by, and Ludwig followed him a second later.

The afternoon was beginning to wane, the sun’s rays slipping into fiery orange. In the neighbouring houses, families stopped to listen to the sound of twinkling silver as, together, the two of them greeted the night.


End file.
